


Timshel

by jsea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Tag, Families of Choice, First Kiss, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pre-Slash, Stiles is Derek's Anchor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsea/pseuds/jsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek lets Scott kill Peter for the cure at the end of S1. This is the story of how that choice changes everyone's fate. </p><p>
  <i>"Sir, you should know..." Derek starts to say, then snaps his mouth closed when the Sheriff takes one hand off the steering wheel, and holds it up in a halting gesture. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>"You're not a bad kid, Derek."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I'm a werewolf," Derek says, before he can think about it. For the first time in his life the word feels dirty, like something to be ashamed of. It makes him feel like a little kid again, using a curse word without understanding what it means.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to my beta Piscaria. You make me a better person (and, oh yeah, a better writer too!) ♥
> 
> Also, huge thanks to my cheerleaders who have stuck with me in the year it's taken me to write this (I have no excuse for how long this has taken me to post...). You know who you are. I would not have finished this story without you few awesome, amazing, wonderful people.
> 
> ETA: There is now some AMAZING art for this fic, done by the fantastically talented [mushroomtale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale). Make sure to leave her some love if you like it!

_"The Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not... That makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win..." -John Steinbeck, East of Eden_

  


"What am I supposed to do?" The words are tinged with desperation and anger, but Derek barely hears them. Scott's voice is tinny, like he's speaking from far away. Or maybe it's Derek who’s far away, separated by six years of pain and despair and guilt. The smell of smoke and burning flesh is heavy on the crisp fall air, as clear and sharp as sound isn't.

The scent of death is overwhelming and choking, but not unfamiliar, not anymore. 

Peter is dying, but even if he wasn't, Derek knows he needs to be put down. Like a rabid dog, he thinks, bitter, because this is the only chance any of them will have to match the alpha strength, that is even now starting to knit broken flesh back together.

Which means Derek has to make a choice.

Peter knows it too. His glowing eyes are wide and blood red. Pain twists his face into a gruesome rictus, but the faint impression of a smirk lingers beneath it. Like Peter has one final trick up his sleeve, and he's confident of victory.

"You've. Already. Decided," Peter rasps. The words are tinged with alpha power, and they call to Derek, to the part of him that still acknowledges pack. He has to fight against the command in them. It would be so easy to make that final strike, to take the power that smells like lightning before a storm, like the sharp bite of electricity running under his skin.

Derek jerks back, suddenly nauseous and cold, and Scott is at his side in an instant. His hand on Derek's shoulder is hot, even through his leather jacket. Derek stumbles away from him, falls over onto hands and knees, and retches into the dry leaves scattering the ground.

When his body has stopped heaving, he looks up to see Scott kneeling over Peter in his place. Derek's claws unsheathe despite himself, and he digs them into the cool dirt. It's a fight to stay still, curled on the ground, to keep every instinct he has in check and let this happen the way he knows, intellectually, that it has to. Scott deserves a chance at a normal life. _Unlike him_ , a small voice whispers in his head, cynical and hurt. Young like the teenagers standing in a tense circle around them.

And Derek… he’s just ready for everything to be over, so he can go off and lick his wounds in peace.

Scott doesn't do anything at first, and Peter has gone quiet except for the labored gurgling of his breathing. There's a long moment of nothing at all, and the world slowly starts to come back into focus for him, in that silence.

He wants to look away, but he can't.

Scott hesitates for a moment, and Derek follows Scott's gaze as it tracks over the clearing one last time, catching first on Allison as she clings to her father, her expression somewhere between hopeful and horrified. And then on to Jackson and Stiles, standing close by as well. Jackson's jaw clenches when Derek catches his eyes, and he looks away. Stiles, on the other hand, holds his gaze. It's a challenge, but there's sympathy too, and that's almost too much for Derek to handle, so he look away. He turns back to the gruesome tableau that is his uncle's final moment, just in time to watch Scott draw a clawed hand back with deadly momentum. The strike, when it comes, is clean and precise, splattering blood across the ground like rain.

Derek feels Peter die.

Peter was his alpha. Had been. As his life soaks away onto the forest floor, the magnetic pull of pack slowly seep away too.

In the wake of that loss, he is only barely aware of Scott as he lurches away, the movement fumbling and awkward. Scott smells like fear and anger; his breathing is quick and rasping and too loud, on the verge of an asthma attack. Human.

Allison jerks out of her father's hold and is at Scott's side in a heartbeat. She doesn't say anything, just clings to him and makes broken wet noises that Scott kisses from her mouth.

Derek turns away from the sight. He's exhausted and there's a knot in his chest that tightens even further at the knowledge that Scott got everything he wanted, at a price Derek had to pay. He walks into the darkness of the forest and lets the shift overtake him. He's confident that tonight at least, no one will follow him.

~~~

"What are you doing here Stiles?"

Derek lifts his head and looks toward the door, but he doesn't bother getting up. He's sprawled out—not exactly comfortable, but close enough not to care—across a dirty and broken couch that he’d picked up off the side of the street a couple of nights ago. It smells like mold and sex and rusted metal. He hates it, but it had been convenient and not something anyone would miss. It had the added benefit of not being covered in Kate Argent's blood.

"I just..." Stiles trails off. Derek watches him fidget with the front pocket of his hoodie, where the stitching is slowly coming undone. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes, and he looks like he's lost weight. There's a sharp medicinal tang to him too, much stronger than Derek remembers, and disconcertingly similar to the amphetamine scent that clings to the couch as strongly as old sex.

Stiles sighs. His shoulders slump and he seems to take Derek's lack of talking, or otherwise threatening bodily harm, as permission of some sort. Derek has just enough time to pull his feet hastily out of the way and halfway sit up, before Stiles is falling into a graceless sprawl on the other end of the couch.

"Dude, this couch is nasty," he says absently, but he doesn't get up. He just leans back and throws an arm across his eyes, as if he's trying to block out a light that isn't there.

"Stiles," Derek huffs, annoyed. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with, I don't know, Scott?" It's been a week since Scott got his humanity back.

Stiles stiffens at the words and his heart stutters for a second. It's an odd mix of signals, and it takes Derek a moment to untangle them, categorize them as anger.

"Scott and I aren't really friends right now. He pretty much wants to be with Allison. All. The. Time. It's kind of sickening, actually. Even when he's not... Dude, I can't even make a dog reference without him flipping out on me.” Stiles pauses and grimaces."He quit his job," he says like this is the real sticking point. "He needed that job."

Stiles’ mouth turns down into a bitter frown. "And I can't do that, Ok? Not...I mean, I don't have a job to quit, but that's not the point..." He frowns and forcibly gets himself back on track. "I can't just forget. I can't pretend everything's cool and there's no such thing as werewolves. Everything that happened... I mean, it was different for me obviously, but... the stuff I saw and did, that was something. I can't pretend it didn't happen. That people didn't die."

Stiles says the last quietly, and a subtle current of fear spikes through his scent, but strangely tempered with adrenaline and excitement. Derek idly thinks that Stiles must have liked the adventure of it all, and it drives home how young he is, how naive. "You're an idiot," Derek says contemplatively, when it's clear that Stiles is done talking. There's no bite to the words, but Stiles stiffens on the couch next to him nonetheless.

Derek waits almost a full minute for the torrent of defensive babble to start back up. He can practically feel the words hovering on the tip of Stiles' tongue, but they never come. It's another minute after that before Stiles finally huffs and settles back down.

"Yeah." he agrees, and then makes a deliberate show of wiggling deeper into the couch.

Derek grimaces at Stiles, but since he's been napping on the same couch on and off all day, he really doesn't have much ground to stand on. So he just stays quiet and lets Stiles sprawl there for a little longer. It feels good to have some company, at least until Stiles starts jiggling his right knee in agitation.

When the fidgeting becomes actively annoying, Derek tries again. "You should go," he says pointedly, and Stiles makes a little defeated noise in the back of his throat. He gets up, the movement jerky and aggravated, and he doesn't look back at Derek until he's at the door again.

"Thanks," he says, not quite sincere, but close enough to it that Derek knows Stiles must have gotten something from his little visit, although he can't for the life of him figure out what.

It's a long time, after slipping out the door, before the sound of his heartbeat fades beyond Derek’s ability to hear. The house feels too quiet in the absence, and he settles back against the couch again, throwing his feet back up to soak in the little bit of warmth Stiles had left in his wake. 

Derek doesn’t actually expect to ever see him again, so when Stiles shows up a couple of weeks later, it’s a surprise. It probably shouldn’t be though.

"I am not going to be your token werewolf friend, Stiles." 

Stiles pauses in the doorway. He’s momentarily backlit in the beam of struggling afternoon sunlight that has managed to strike its way through the thick woods that surround the house. He looks out of context, and Derek has to stop himself from staring, strangely riveted by the way the light turns the short stubble of Stiles' hair auburn.

He looks better today. His eyes are normal bright, and not glinting with manic chemical overdose. He looks healthy, if not exactly happy, and somehow older than Derek remembers him, as if all the shit of the last couple of months has finally settled within him, for better or worse.

"What? Derek that's not..." Stiles gapes at him, clearly thrown, and Derek smirks before settling pointedly back onto the same couch they'd sprawled on the last time. He knows he's being petty, but the words felt like a victory all the same.

It takes a second, during which Derek can practically see the internal debate, before Stiles finally juts out his chin and squares his shoulders.

"Allison came up to me today." The words tumble out in a rush, as if Stiles is afraid of getting interrupted. When Derek just rolls his eyes and maintains his relaxed apathy, Stiles continues more carefully. "We haven't really been friends or anything. Since, you know... Anyway, she said her grandfather came into town last night."

Derek huffs and raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Granddaddy Argent is apparently pretty badass?" Stiles tries with a meaningful full body flail, as if that somehow gives his words more credibility. "She thinks he might be coming after you. You know, some sort of fucked up revenge thing for Kate. She wasn't happy about telling me, but... Allison's sort of a good person? Definitely way too good for Scott."

"I take it you guys are still fighting?"

Stiles' eyes widen and his mouth falls open. "Seriously? That's what you are taking out of all that? I tell you that her geriatric, probably psychopathic, grandpa is coming to kill you—with a sword I might add. She mentioned something about a sword-- and you are concerned about whether or not Scott and I have gone back to being BFFs?"

"He can try," Derek says lightly. He's not nearly as confident as he sounds, but the idea of dying isn't scary to him anymore. He's strangely ok with it. He's not suicidal, he doesn't want to die that badly, but if it comes down to it? At least he wouldn't have to make any more choices.

"He can try," Stiles mocks. "Fine. You know what? Your fucking funeral, man. Excuse me for giving a shit."

Derek winces, but pointedly continues to look away from Stiles. If the hunters are going to come after him, there's nothing he or Stiles can do about it. At least this way, maybe Stiles won't be in a position to get hurt too.

The life-span of an omega is notoriously short, especially in such a remote territory as Beacon Hills, where there are no other packs nearby who could keep the hunters at bay; he's accepted that fact. Has known it since he was a child, and his parents had gone on and on about the importance of pack and family. If it's not Allison's grandfather now, it will be someone else later.

"Really?" Stiles bites out. "That's it? You're just going to roll over and take it? Bare your throat like a good little wolf?"

"No," Derek feels very tired all of a sudden.

"Right. Well. OK. I guess I'll just leave you to your suicidal, broody self then." Stiles glares at him, but doesn't move right away. He just stands there with his hands on his hips, like he's waiting for Derek to do or say something. He doesn't, and Stiles finally gives up and stomps to the door, a mistake that dislodges ash and dust and sends Stiles into a coughing fit. Derek snorts in amusement; it serves him right.

"Ya know what? Fuck. You." Stiles swats the loose debris off of his plaid over shirt, throws an angry, stubborn look back at him, and then marches back outside to his Jeep.

~~~

Derek dodges to his right, more out of instinct than anything else, just as the sharp crack of a gunshot shatters the silence of the autumn night.

He has to force himself not to flinch when the bullet still passes far too close though. The smell of gunpowder is thick and acrid on his tongue as he sprints across the fog-covered field on the far outer edge of Beacon Hills cemetery.

The tree line is still several hundred yards off, and he knows the hunters are closing in. The heavy fog layering the ground helps to obscure him a little, probably the only reason he hasn't actually been shot yet, but he's afraid one of them will get lucky before he can get to the relative safety of the trees. At least the forest is his territory. He might have a chance there.

Except…fuck. Derek inwardly curses when a pair of headlights spears across the darkness. He can make out the roar of a vehicle as it speeds down the maintenance road that meanders off to his left, before it cuts directly across the path he'll have to take to reach the woods. 

"Der-ek!" A gravelly voice intones mockingly behind him. _You might as well give up._ The hunter doesn't actually say it, but he doesn’t need to.

Another gunshot cracks through the fog, and Derek stumbles when he feels a hot, sharp pain spear across his side. Not a direct hit, and he can feel it healing already, but it startles him, slows him down at a moment when he absolutely cannot afford to lose any ground.

Those few seconds are his downfall. He watches in resigned defeat as a black SUV skids to a halt directly into the path between him and the woods. It's only a matter of seconds for a hunter to lean out of the open window and rest a fucking huge gun against the sill.

Derek knows there's no way the hunter will miss, so he goes still, like a deer caught in the headlights, and feels a wave of resignation wash over him.

Nothing happens at first. The hunter just keeps his gun carefully aimed, and Derek realizes too late that maybe this isn't going to be the easy, quick and painless death he imagined it would be.

He hears the hunters behind him coming up on him, fast, at the same moment he's aware of more headlights making their way down the service road to him, tightening the trap.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Derek turns, stiff backed and slow, to see an old man walking toward him. His face is sagging and his hair is white. There's a manic light in his eyes though, that is at odds with the image of a smiling grandfather.

He's also holding a sword. The blade is long, and it glints with deadly menace in the light of the waning moon.

"Gerard." Derek nods his chin in acknowledgement.

"I see my reputation has preceded me. Good." Gerard draws the final word out, slow and menacing.

Derek doesn't say anything. His body is rigid with anticipation, and his senses are on high alert.

He doubts he'll be able to get away, but he’ll be damned if he’s going down without a fight. He might even be able to take a couple of the hunters down with him. The thought spurs a kick of adrenaline, and his claws lengthen. He might not be an alpha, but he is a born werewolf. Since they are refusing to give him the quick bullet to the brain that he’d hoped, in his darker moments, would be his end, he’s determined to show them what that means.

It's the alertness of his senses, his sharp-eyed vigilance for an opening, that draws his attention away from Gerard, and behind him, a little to his right. The scent is familiar, but not at the same time, and Derek feels his heart speed up in disbelief when _Scott_ steps out of the obscuring mist. That moment of recognition douses his concentration, shocking the breath out him. Against his will, he feels the transformation that has been roiling under his skin retreat. It leaves him feeling vulnerable and human in a way that he hasn't for over six years.

"Ah. I see you recognize my new associate," Gerard says with manic glee. "I'm afraid my dear granddaughter was too soft for my tastes, but Scott here... Well, he was most helpful. Isn't it convenient that he knew about your habit of visiting the cemetery? The information was a bit...imprecise. I was getting impatient after a week," Gerard wrinkles his nose and gives Derek a look that's almost conspiratorial. "But it was certainly useful in the end, don't you think?

Derek can't think of much of anything. Betrayal is an old friend to him, after all. It feels ironic and darkly appropriate.

Scott won't meet his eyes. He just stands there looking uncomfortable, unarmed, but clearly not any ally of Derek’s. There hadn't been any taste of a lie in Gerard's words about Scott's role in this.

"Nothing to say?" Gerard laughs, and then he nods to someone behind Derek. There's the crack of a bullet, and then all Derek knows is the pain of impact. He seizes as the bullet strikes him in the back, and then roars, falls to his hands and knees. When there’s no immediate acid sting, he knows that at least the bullet has not been laced with wolfsbane, but the agony from a direct hit is terrible.

"You didn't think I would make this easy, did you?" Gerard mocks. "It's because of you that my daughter is dead. No. This won't be easy. You will be begging for death before I finally grant it to you. And then, finally, this place will be cleansed from the taint of your kind."

Derek spits up blood onto the ground. When he looks back up he knows his eyes are once again glowing with the outrage of his wolf, but this only prompts another laugh from Gerard.

There's another crack, another flash of agony, in his leg this time, and Derek falls to his stomach. His blood smells hot and metallic on the air, thick on his tongue as he gasps desperately.

He's barely aware of anything as Gerard stalks up to him. He groans as the old man kicks him viciously, rolling him over with the hard leather toe of his shoe. His sword is the only bright thing in the dark night, and Derek is strangely riveted by the reflection of the moon in its silvery surface.

Even only half full, blurred in the reflective blade of the sword, it's bright and peaceful, and Derek is reminded of running with Laura beneath its pale glow. They hadn't done it often in the years after the fire, and only once recently, back in New York. That had been before he'd found out about her need to return home, though, about the itch that had been building under her skin, calling her back as inexorably as the pull of the moon at its peak.

It was almost ironic that this is what his mind focuses on now, with her dead and Derek not far behind. He'd been so angry at Laura, when she'd told him about returning. Looking back, all he can think about is how fierce she'd seemed. How strong and stubborn, like their mother. Qualities he'd always thought he disliked about her, until he didn't have them, didn't have her standing like a shield between him and the rest of the world.

The press of a cold edge against the back of his neck is shocking. A thin trickle of blood wells up almost immediately, tracing down the skin of his neck and dripping wetly to the ground, before the pressure disappears. There’s a blur of fraught kinetic energy, and Derek closes his eyes, waits.

And....It's more the sudden flurry of activity around him, the shrill ree-ar of a siren, that breaks Derek out of his breathless, interminable moments of waiting.

He lifts his cheek from the cool dirt, and shakes his head to clear his blurred vision. The hunters are scrambling, frantic, backlit by seizing flashes of red and blue. The vehicles Derek had seen earlier have arrived in a screech of tires and chaos, and Derek dimly realizes that Gerard has moved a few feet away from him. He’s barking orders in a rough but clear voice, and there's a calm determination to him, a madness in his casualness, as he tries to organize a retreat. Derek shivers violently and heaves against the ground in pain and relief both.

"Police!"

Derek finally gets the pain enough under control that he manages to sit up, only to come to an abrupt stop at the sharp end of Gerard's sword once more.

"I don't think so, beast." Gerard hisses. He looms back over Derek again, and he looks beyond anger, beyond anything even remotely human. The crazed light in his eyes is easily one of the most frightening things Derek has ever seen in his life. It reminds him of Peter, but worse. So far beyond anything that even Peter had managed, in his most broken and inhuman.

"Step away from him and put the weapon down!" a voice shouts, and Derek's eyes flick up in recognition. There's only one police officer standing there, gun draw, and following his command to Gerard, he speaks quietly into the radio clipped to his jacket.

"Requesting backup..." Sheriff Stilinski says, calm and determined.

Gerard doesn't move away, just laughs. "I don't think so."

"I repeat. Put the weapon down, or I _will_ shoot."

Gerard growls, and in a move that's surprisingly quick considering his age, he draws his arm back and brings the blade into a powerful arc straight towards Derek.

A crack of gunfire breaks the night, and Derek flinches involuntarily, and then watches in stunned silence as Gerard stumbles back.

Another shot, and the old man falls to his knees. He drop the sword to the ground with a thud, and reaches up with his now free hand to swipe at the blood gathering at the corners of his mouth. He stares at it for a moment, and then his eyes roll up into his head and he falls back.

Derek knows when he dies. Can hear the moment that his lungs take a last rattling breath, and his heart shudders to a stop.

There's nothing after that. It's eerily silent. The sheriff is just standing there, gun still aimed warily at Gerard. He only lowers the gun when some movement, or sound, or maybe fatherly intuition, draws his attention off to his left.

Derek's too.

"Stiles..." he says, soft, probably too soft for human ears, considering how far Stiles is from him. He's standing behind his father, clutching at the edge of the door to his Jeep. He looks pale and worried, but after getting a nod from his dad that everything is clear, he steps away and runs to Derek's side.

"Oh my god. Derek. Are you ok? Please tell me you're ok. Dude, if you aren't..." His hands are gentle as he pulls Derek up against him, supporting him in a way that feels suddenly intimate, especially with the sheriff still standing off to the side, face caught between amused and worried and... he looks startled too, wary like he's not sure Derek isn't a threat, either.

And shit. He realizes that he's still wolfed out, that the sheriff is looking directly at him, and he's miraculously still letting his son within touching distance.

"I'm fine,” he tells Stiles distractedly.

"Dude. You really aren't."

Derek nods in acknowledgement, and meets Stiles’ eyes. "But I will be."

"Yeah." A small smile quirks Stiles’ lips, before turning almost feral-- any werewolf would be proud-- as he looks at something over Derek's shoulder.

"Scott," he says, voice hard, and honestly, Derek hadn't even realized Scott was still there at all. He is, though, and there's a horrified look on his face when he lifts his head to look directly at them, eyes wide and scared.

"Oh my god. Stiles I..."

"You what? You didn't know what you were doing? Jesus! He was going to kill Derek. He would have killed _you_ if you were still a werewolf. Which, you aren't. Because of," Stiles waves his hands to encompass all of Derek.

"I know. I know that. I'm... god I'm sorry. I was just..."

"A selfish dick?" Stiles suggests, and Scott flinches.

"That's enough, Stiles," the sheriff says, coming toward them. He lays a hand on his son's shoulder and draws him to his feet. "You need to get Scott out of here. Backup'll be here any minute."

"What about Derek?"

The sheriff sighs and looks down at Derek, and if feels like the man is judging him somehow. He says, pointedly, "I'll take care of him, son. It's a pretty clear-cut case here,” and that must mean something to Stiles, because he purses his lips, but nods in acknowledgement nonetheless.

“Ok. I’ll see you at home?”

“Yeah. Get outta here.”

Stiles hesitates, then turns to glare at Scott. When he waves his hand impatiently, Scott follows him, trailing in Stiles' wake and looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. He only stops briefly when the sheriff claps hand on his shoulder. The man’s words are soft, but with his hearing, Derek picks up on them without any effort.

"You are better than this, Scott."

Scott flinches, but looks the sheriff directly in the eyes. He nods. "Yes sir."


	2. Chapter 2

It's almost morning by the time the sheriff herds Derek out of the police station. The sky is that dusty rose color unique to the pre-dawn hour, and only a handful of stars still glimmer faintly in the darker sky off to the west. The atmosphere inside of the police cruiser is wary, but not uncomfortable. There’s a distinctive hush around them, that Derek has only ever experience while driving at this time of night-- morning—with the radio off and the world still and waiting for the day.

It's different being in the front seat, and not behind the bars that cage off the back. Derek's not sure if it makes him feel more at ease, or like he's an imposter, somehow. He's too exhausted at this point to give it too much thought though, and he knows the sheriff must be as well, if the way he rubs at his eyes before turning the car on is any indication.

"Thank you," Derek says quietly, breaking the silence as the sheriff lets the car idle for a moment, still parked in the small gravel employee parking lot at the side of the building.

The sheriff takes a careful breath and grips the steering wheel. He doesn't respond right away, but Derek can practically feel the gears in his brain turning. It reminds him so much of Stiles that something in his chest clenches a little.

"Sir, you should know..." Derek starts to say, then snaps his mouth closed when the Sheriff takes one hand off the steering wheel, and holds it up in a halting gesture.

"You're not a bad kid, Derek."

"I'm a werewolf," Derek says, before he can think about it. For the first time in his life, the word feels dirty, like something to be ashamed of. It makes him feel like a little kid again, using a curse word without understanding what it means.

"Yeah, I know. Stiles told me everything, and let me tell you, it was kind of a shock. Honestly, I wasn't even sure I believed it until I saw you tonight. But the point is, Derek, whatever else you are, what you aren't, is guilty.

"I..." Derek licks his lips and knocks his head back against the headrest.

"Trust me. My entire career is figuring out when someone is guilty, and when someone isn’t,” the sheriff says, and then adds quickly “You might have screwed up," when Derek opens his mouth to contradict him. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you haven't made mistakes, but that's...well, that's human. You've never meant any harm. Most kids your age have the luxury of screwing up and you just..."

"Don't," Derek agrees softly.

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a minute, and then the sheriff sighs and rubs at his eyes again, his jaw tensing as he fights a yawn. “Look, son, it’s late. Where do you want me to take you?”

“Home,” Derek says, before he can think about it. And it’s the wrong thing to say, because the man beside him goes tense, even as he blows out a tired breath.

“Derek....” the sheriff says his name like an apology. “Surely there’s some place you can go. Somewhere safe? Or I could take you to a hotel?”

Derek shakes his head, and his hand is on the door handle to the car before he can even think about it. His heart feels like it’s ready to beat out of his chest, and his throat feels raw and tight, everything too much too fast. He wants to run away, and he’s not sure why he doesn’t.

“Right.” The sheriff gives Derek a long look, and then pulls the car smoothly out onto the street, the world washed out and vague in the light of the cruiser’s high beams.

Derek doesn’t have the nerve to ask where they’re going.

He can’t decide if he feels relieved, or alarmed when they finally pull up in front of the Stilinski residence. It’s like suddenly being submerged in water that’s so hot it feels cold, his nerves too shocked by sensation to be able to understand the nuances of pain.

“Sir...”

“Son, it’s late. I’m exhausted, and there was no way I was going to take you all the way out to your house. Which is, I shouldn’t have to remind you, technically still a crime scene.”

Derek nods, but just sits there, watching as the man gets out of the car and starts heading toward the house. He has to stop and gesture half-heartedly, before Derek musters the courage to follow him.

The house smells like a combination of Stiles and the sheriff, all rich and spicy. There are remnants of burnt cheese-- probably from Stiles’ dinner-- on top of cologne and clean laundry, furniture polish and older smells, harder to distinguish, that must once have belonged to a woman. Derek just stands there for a long moment, breathing it in, letting his senses acclimate as the sheriff locks the door behind them.

The man visibly sags once the door is locked, and in the pale, pre-dawn light, his uniform looks ill-fitting. He trudges to the stairs like he’s 20 years older than he is, and his footsteps are heavy as he heads up. He clearly expects Derek to follow him, and when they get to the top, he gestures toward the door Derek knows is the bathroom.

“There should be a clean towel in there. l'll see if I can find you something to sleep in,” and then he’s slipping away, and Derek can’t do anything but what he’s told, because he really does need a shower. He wants desperately to wash the night away and never think about it again.

The light, when he flicks it on, is too harsh. The small bathroom smells like Stiles and undertones of arousal and teenager, only half-heartedly covered up with soap and bleach. It's small, but mostly tidy, thankfully, so long as Derek ignores the fact that the toothpaste doesn’t have a cap and there’s a congealed blob at the tip that drips down to stick to the edge of the sink. True to the sheriff’s word though, there’s a stack of clean towels on a shelf above the toilet, and Derek snags one and hangs it up on the bar next to the shower before carefully stripping out of clothes that feel stiff with sweat and blood and dirt.

The plain gray t-shirt he’s wearing isn’t even his, and he’s careful to not stretch it too much as he lifts it over his head. It smells like sweat and exertion-- probably work out gear, but it had had the benefit of not being covered in blood, when the sheriff had hurriedly handed it to him at the cemetery after realizing how quickly Derek was healing. By the time backup and the paramedics had finally arrived at the scene, there hadn’t been any obvious explanations for the blood which had literally soaked his own shirt.

His jeans are another matter though. They’re stiff and they stick in places where the blood has dried, and the heavy fabric has literally healed into his skin; he has to stifle a cry as he picks it free. He’s just fucking grateful that at least the bullet must have gone clean through his flesh, and he doesn’t have to deal with digging it out.

The flakes of dried blood and dirt that crumble free as he finishes stripping look almost obscene against the crisp white tile of the bathroom floor.

When he finally steps into the shower the heat is a relief, but he can’t bring himself to take his time. Instead, he’s quick and economical about washing , only feeling a little guilty about using the body wash that must clearly be Stiles’—it reeks so cloyingly of cologne that it makes Derek sneeze, before he clenches his jaw and uses the smallest amount possible. There’s no shampoo of course, so the best he can do is rinse his hair under the spray and rub half heartedly at his scalp, before he’s done.

When he finally steps out of the bathroom, it’s not the sheriff waiting for him with an armful of soft looking pajamas.

Stiles is sleep rumpled, and the t-shirt he’s wearing is stretched out so much at the collar that it pulls flush to his neck on one side, and slips almost off his shoulder on the other. His collarbones look sharp in the low hallway light, and it’s all Derek can do not to fixate on them, on how fragile the bones look, or the way the shadows make the dip in Stiles’ throat look more pronounced than usual.

“Dad went to bed,” Stiles says softly, and then he shuffles forward, his eyes carefully averted from Derek, who is standing in the hallway wearing nothing but the towel slung around hips. “Uh, here. Clothes. They’re probably... I mean they should fit, but if you stretch them out it’s cool.” Stiles deposits the clothes in Derek’s arms and then scurries back, one hand tugging compulsively at the already stretched out collar of his shirt, unconsciously making it worse.

They just stare awkwardly at each other for a second, before Stiles once again launches into a whirlwind of frenetic energy, his tiredness vanishing practically before Derek’s eyes, now that he has a mission.

“So uh, no guest room, but the couch is pretty comfortable, or...” Stiles stops abruptly, and spins around to face Derek so quickly that they almost run into each other. Derek’s so tired that he has to slam one hand against the wall to brace himself against falling, and his other hand shoots down to his towel to make sure it doesn’t slip off.

There’s a long moment of tense silence between them, and Derek can actually see the moment when Stiles loses the battle with himself and darts his eyes down to where Derek’s hand is still frozen on the knot that holds the towel together.

Stiles licks his lips and color flushes into his cheeks, before he pointedly brings his eyes up to... somewhere over Derek’s left shoulder.

“There’s um... a spare mattress in my room, if you want?” Stiles finally says, rough voiced, and then he clears his throat. “It’ll probably smell like... well, like Scott, and I get if that’s a problem, but it might be more comfortable?”

“That’s fine Stiles. Whatever.”

“Right. OK. Just uh...” He turns away from Derek and slips into his own room, and Derek follows quietly behind him, noting that it looks the same from the last time he was here, if maybe a little messier. “I’ll just let you, ya know, change, while I go get some fresh sheets?” And then Stiles is back out the door again, carefully slipping past Derek. He has to scrunch himself awkwardly to keep from touching, because Derek is basically standing in the middle of the doorway, but he manages it.

Derek can only focus on the fact that the room feels cold in Stiles’ absence.

He changes quickly, and he’s just pulling the over large and blindingly orange camp t-shirt on, when Stiles gets back. His lips quirk a bit when he sees Derek, and he mutters softly, “Worst camp ever”.

The little mattress Derek finally settles on does smell like Scott, but the sheets are clean, and the room smells like Stiles.

He’s afraid it’s going to be distracting and difficult to sleep, surrounded so thoroughly by someone else. All he can hear, in the darkness, is Stiles’ breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat, but somehow, even as the thought tapers off, the world falls away as well.

~~~

The guesthouse is surprisingly large on the inside, despite the heavy layer of dust and debris. It’s also crowded with various odds and ends, everything from broken yard tools, to what must be the remnants of Stiles’ childhood toys. Cobwebs cling stubbornly to every corner in the place, but they almost seem to vanish when the sheriff turns the lights on, and Derek is only reminded of their existence when he accidentally runs his hand through one.

“It’s... well, it’s not much,” the sheriff says, grimacing. He rubs a hand at the back of his neck as he surveys the mess. “Most of the junk has been cleared out over the years. Believe it or not, it used to be worse. A bit of spit and polish, and it might actually be livable? Claudia, before she died, used to talk about cleaning this place up and making something of it. A studio maybe, or... well who knows...” He shrugs in a way that says he never really saw her vision, but even years after her death, he’s willing to trust her.

“It’s...” Derek doesn’t really know what to say. He’s not sure if the building qualifies as a guesthouse or a shed, but apparently it has basic amenities. And electricity. And that might or might not be a sink he can see, set into the counter that runs partially along the right wall.

“It’s AWFUL, is what it is,” Stiles says, popping his head through the door. “Dad, aside from functioning as Scott and my super secret, super AWESOME fort of awesomeness... when we were _five_ , I don’t think this place has any actual redeeming qualities.”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek says, suddenly defensive. It’s been almost a week since the “Gerard Incident” as Stiles has taken to calling it, like it was some sort of major global event or something. Maybe it was. At absolute best, his casual use of the man’s name has gone a long way toward desensitizing Derek. But this gesture that the sheriff is making, offering him a place to live, offering him... anything-- something that could last even-- is more than anyone else has done for him in a long time.

The sheriff smiles brightly at Derek, pleased, before he turns toward the door and puts his hands on his hips, “If you think it’s so awful, son, I think it’s only fair you help our guest get this place cleaned out then. Consider it part of your grounding.”

“Grounding! What?! What have I done that’s deserving of my being grounded?” Stiles whines, indignant, despite the conspiratorial wink he throws Derek. The sheriff clearly doesn’t miss the gesture either, if his eye roll is anything to go by.

“Does it matter? I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m sure you’ve done something worthy of a good grounding, and...nope!”

He holds up a hand when Stiles opens his mouth to argue.

“ _And_ ,” he repeats, “even if you haven’t yet, consider this my way of preempting whatever it is you are thinking about doing, that might be groundworthy.”

“Dad!” Stiles exclaims, as if this is the most shocking thing in the world. He clutches one hand over his heart, and throws the other over his forehead as if he’s about to swoon in disbelief. “You wound me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, kid, I’ve got to go into the office for a couple of hours to get some paperwork done.” He shoves playfully at Stiles as he walks out of the guesthouse. “I think you can manage without me. I’m trusting Derek here to keep your slacking to a minimum. Right Derek?”

Fighting to keep his face straight against the laughter that is caught in his throat, Derek nods seriously. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man.”

It takes more than a couple of hours to get the place cleared out.

It doesn’t help that Stiles mostly does slack, sitting around on whatever is conveniently ass-level, and ordering Derek around. Because he is “a weak human who’d just get in the way of Derek’s awesome and extremely useful werewolf strength”. Not that Derek is complaining. The physical labor is actually kind of therapeutic.

Stiles does finally buckle down once all the heavy lifting is done, at least, and two days later they are staring at the empty and clean guest house. Stiles has dragged an old rug into the middle of the floor, and the spare mattress has been set up against one wall, but otherwise the place is completely empty.

It’s actually nicer than Derek thought it would be. There’s a cement counter with a sink, and Derek thinks he’ll need to try to find a microwave at some point. There’s also an outdated, but definitely still functional, mini fridge, and a built-in table that swings down flush against the wall to allow for more space. The bathroom is little more than a closet with a motor-home shower, but it’s functional, and not half bad once they’re done bleaching everything to within an inch of its life.

It’s more than he’s used to.

The space heater Stiles sets up in one corner is already making the room feel comfortably warm.

“So,” Stiles says from beside him. He bumps shoulders with Derek, and then offers him a bright smile. He’s still wearing the blue rubber cleaning gloves, which he’d donned after they’d found their first dead cockroach, and outright refused to take off after the first mouse carcass.

“So,” Derek echoes, bumping back against him, already thinking about where he might put a couch, and whether or not he cares enough to get a TV.

~~~

Derek is not surprised to see Scott at his door, when he opens it. Mostly because he’d sensed him long before the kid finally bothered to actually knock. It is a surprise that he’s there at all, though.

“Scott.”

His hair is frizzy and standing at odd angles from where he’s clearly brushed his hands through it too many times. His eyes are wide, and the quick beat of his heart suggests that if he’s not outright scared, he’s at least extremely nervous.

“Uh. Derek?” Scott says his name like a question. Like he’s not the one who doesn’t belong here.

“What do you want, Scott?”

“Right uh...I’m sorry! Ok. I just. Wanted to say that. That I was sorry. For. Um. For everything.”

He looks freaked out now, and he’s started to back away from Derek. It takes him looking over his shoulder at Stiles-- who is _not_ subtle, where he’s standing in the doorway to his house, making enthusiastic forward shooing motions-- for Scott to find any ounce of courage again.

Derek sighs heavily, and sends a pointed glare over at Stiles, who straightens and plants his hands on his hips, before nodding pointedly at him.

He fleetingly thinks back to the days when Stiles was afraid of him too, but he can’t bring himself to mourn those days. He nods back.

“You want to come in?” he asks Scott carefully, turning his attention back to him. “I think I might have a Coke or something?”

Scott looks relieved, and he lets out a long wheezing breath. “Yes?”

Derek snorts, but he pushes the door wider, forcing Scott to squeeze past him in order to get inside. He thinks, fleetingly, that it’s probably a dick move. He doesn’t care.

Once he’s let the door swing shut behind them, he gestures Scott over to the futon couch he'd found a month ago at a yard sale-- and that had been a fun day, sarcasm very much intended. Stiles had dragged him out of bed at 6am. On a Saturday. Because “you have to hit the yard sales early, before the best stuff is gone”-- The cushion is a rich brown and perfectly soft, though, and he’s caught himself sleeping on it several time, despite the spare twin mattress from Stiles' room, which even sits on an actual frame now.

Derek waits until Scott settles himself precariously on the edge of the couch, still looking half ready to bolt. He rolls his eyes at the kid, and then turns to rummage through his mini fridge, grabbing one of the small half cans of Coke that he keeps around for Stiles more than himself. He practically shoves it into Scott's hands before he stands back and looks at Scott expectantly, his arms crossed over his chest in a pose that he hopes is not as defensive looking as it feels.

“Um. Could you maybe sit down? You’re sort of freaking me out, dude, and this is already kind of awful.” Scott’s eyes are huge still, and he's gripping at the can of Coke like it's a stress ball. He’d have crushed it, if he were still a werewolf.

Derek huffs, but he gives in, snagging one of the rickety little stools that he keeps around his table.

A table still littered with remnants of a week's worth of Stiles' homework.

“Right,” Scott says, relieved, once Derek's sitting down too. “Look, I know what happened was bad. I know I was...” He doesn't finish the sentence. The wild look in his eyes is suddenly just gone, though, replaced by something more distant and surprisingly introspective. Derek wonders how he would finish the sentence, if he felt inclined to make him.

But Derek doesn't force the issue. Just purses his lips and stares patiently. Part of him wants to say 'whatever you think, it was worse,' but he can’t. The kid had almost gotten him killed, but then... Derek did kill his family. It's not his place to pass judgment on Scott.

Still, it's because of Scott that, even weeks later, Derek has to work at reminding himself that not all humans are going to betray him. It’s a lesson that's it's taking a long time to learn. But he is learning it. Because of Scott. Because the situation with Scott brought him here, where he has the support and protection of the sheriff.

And Stiles.

And their constant presence, their easy acceptance of him, has gone a long way toward reminding him that he’s human too, where it counts. He still doesn't always believe them, he’s a survivor after all. He used to not trusting people, but the lessons are finally starting to sink in, if only out of sheer Stilinski stubbornness.

“The thing is... I killed someone,” Scott says in a rush, interrupting Derek’s straying thoughts. “I killed a person, and Peter was probably evil, but he was still... and Gerard, was the only one that told me that it was OK. He told me that I wasn't the monster. And I know what I did was wrong, but I wanted to believe him so badly, and I wanted Allison, and he made everything make sense. Or, I thought it made sense. And you didn’t deserve that, and I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I really am sorry.”

Derek licks his lips, and closes his eyes for a long time. The kid’s apology is hard to hear, but he remembers the reasons he let Scott take the cure in the first place, and he thinks they were right. He also remembers what it was like to be young, and so confused and heartbroken, and.... they’re both murderers in their own way, and that’s something they both will have to live with.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” he says finally, “But I think I can. Eventually.”

Scott breathes a long sigh of relief. His heart rate settles, and he looks so damned young again. “I wasn’t really expecting you to. But I had to try, ya know?

"Yeah," Derek says, fighting against the edges of a smile, because he knows it must have been because of Stiles that Scott was here now at all. Stiles likedto fix people too much.

"So uh... Scott shifts in his seat a little, flashing his eyes toward the door. He looks nervous again, but it's less pronounced than before. "I'm starting some community service next weekend," Scott finally says almost distractedly, instead of fleeing like Derek is sort of expecting him to. "Tutoring and stuff. I think." Scott grimaces a little.

"Stiles is doing it too, but he’ll probably think it's fun... and man, I know it doesn't mean much to you but I thought maybe... amends?" He trails off and winces, but he's looking at Derek like he needs his approval.

"You don't have to. Not on my account."

"I think I do, actually. And Stiles' dad.... He couldn't exactly get me into any trouble, not with the law or anything, but he's always been like a dad to me too..."

"He didn't give you a choice," Derek says. It's not a question. He's also not surprised. It sounds about right for the man.

Scott nods, looking rueful. "I think it's a good idea though. I mean, maybe I can actually help other people for once?"

"Then I think it's a good idea, too." They both know it doesn't change the past, but it eases something in Derek's chest a little, because it means that Scott will be alright, and that was something he’d been counting on that night with Peter.

"Right," Scott said, smiling tentatively. He finally stands up, motioning toward the door with his thumb. "So I should probably go now. But. Thanks Derek.

And then Scott is slipping out of the door. Derek gets up as well, watches him jog across the stretch of yard leading to the Stilinski’s back door. As he stands there, Scott’s words whirling around in his head, he catches movement in the kitchen window. It’s far enough away that, while he can clearly see Stiles’ bright smile, Stiles probably can’t see the look on his face, so Derek waves once, and shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly. He hopes he communicates that things are about as good as can be expected.

Stiles waves back, before something, Scott most likely, catches his attention inside the house. He looks away from Derek, and then he's launching himself out of view, his face twisted into an exaggerated snarl, and his hands curled into very non-menacing claws. Derek shakes his head and stifles a laugh as he heads back inside.

He wonders, as he does so, if Scott will become part of his pack after all. Part of a pack that’s more human than wolf. Because Scott had smelled like Stiles. Like the fraying leather of the Jeep’s seats, and the curly fries he’s sure they stopped for after school. And he’d walked into the Stilinski house with the same swagger that Derek himself has slowly been developing over the last several weeks. Like he was sure of his welcome.

Like family.

~~~

“Oh no. You boys stay where you are. I’ll get the door...” The sheriff says, setting his tumbler of whiskey down on the coffee table. He snorts, and shakes his head at them despairingly, before levering himself out of his overstuffed armchair, when neither Derek nor Stiles so much as twitch at the sound of the doorbell ringing.

They’ve been sprawled out on the couch for the past two hours, watching a sequence of progressively bad reality TV—Derek’s convinced that Stiles is so riveted to _Duck Dynasty_ more for the fashion than anything else.

Derek’s got his socked feet propped up on the coffee table in front of the couch, while Stiles’ feet are planted firmly in Derek’s lap. He’d done it casually when they’d first flopped down, and he hasn’t moved them since. He’s pretty sure Stiles hadn’t seen his dad’s extremely exaggerated eye roll. Derek had, although he still doesn’t have the first clue what to think about it.

They’re all still in something of a food coma from the casserole Stiles had put together for dinner. It’s nice. And intoxicatingly domestic. Stiles is comforting and familiar company, and unusually mellow for once, and he seems to be enjoying the relaxed evening as much as Derek.

When the Sheriff wanders back into the living room, however, Derek tenses. There’s an odd look on the man’s face, and the way he immediately focuses on Derek sends a frisson of worry down his spine.

“Is everything ok?” he asks, sitting forward and unceremoniously dumping Stiles’ feet off his lap.

Stiles makes an indignant noise, but sits up as well. “Dad?”

“Derek, there’s someone at the door...” The Sheriff looks uncertain. He’s not actively worried though, and that reassures Derek, even if it doesn’t fully calm his anxiety. Surprises in his life are rarely the good kind. “You should go see.”

He lurches to his feet, but he’s pulled up short before he can start toward the door, by Stiles’ hand on his bicep. He looks back over his shoulder, and he can’t help but smile faintly back at Stiles, easing the worry he sees in Stiles’ eyes. He shakes his head at the unasked question. He can do this on his own. He’s pretty sure that the sheriff would be much more alert than this, if he thought whoever was at the door was a threat, anyway.

“I’ll be right back,” he reassures. He steps back, trying not to shiver as Stiles’ hand caresses down the length of his arm before Derek steps far enough back that Stiles’ hand falls away.

The sheriff had closed the door behind him, so Derek pulls it open and steps outside. The winter air is cold, especially against the bare skin of his arms, still tingling from the ghost of Stiles’ touch. He hadn’t bothered to grab his jacket on his way out, and his toes curl a bit as the cold seeps up from the porch, and past the fabric of his socks almost immediately.

He doesn’t see anyone at first. The porch light is on, but the bulb is dim. It casts odd shadows that make it hard for him to see well, even with his better-than-human vision. When he finally does notice her, it’s more by smell than by sight .

The scent that wafts over the crisp winter air, already heady with the aromas of winter and holiday-- comfort food, and pine and a tang in the air that Derek has learned to recognize as a foreshadowing of snow—is strangely familiar. Not quite the way the sheriff is familiar to him now, much less _Stiles_. But close.

The woman, when Derek finally manages to pick her silhouette out of the heavy shadows, is standing at the far end of the porch with her back to him. She’s tall and slim, but he can’t make out much more than that.

“Hello?” His voice is almost startling, against the still night.

She turns around then, and Derek feels the breath punch out of his lungs. He hadn’t recognized her from the back. The shape of her face though-- the way her hair falls around the slim angles of her shoulders-- is well known to him. Well loved.

If he didn’t know that Laura was dead, if he hadn’t been the one to bury her…

But this isn’t Laura, though the similarities are uncanny. Of course they are.

“Cora?” His voice breaks on her name.

He wants to go to her, wants to pull her to him and bury his face in her throat to be sure. Even from where he’s standing though, she smells like family, like the ghost of a family, in a way that Peter never had, and in a way he hadn’t experienced since Laura left him alone in New York.

“Derek?” she says. Her voice is equally unsteady. She sounds young too, but then again, she _is_. She would be about Stiles’ age. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Derek can’t say anything, so he nods. He’s not sure if she sees the gesture in the dark, but suddenly she’s there in front of him. She’s grown up so much, from the little girl he had known. The little girl who had forced him to play dolls with her, who had forced him to stay back when they ran like wolves in the forest, because she had been too young and too slow to keep up with everyone else. He’d never really minded, although he can remember arguing fiercely with her, and with their mother about it, if only for the sake of arguing.

He reaches a disbelieving hand out and caresses her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, but instead turns her head into his hand, nuzzling his palm.

~~~

“Why are we doing this again?” Derek hears Scott whine, just as he and Cora are getting out of the Camaro. The car jolts a second later when Cora slams her door, and Derek glares at her over the top of the car. She just lifts her chin unapologetically at him in return.

Derek sighs and shakes his head, before turning to take note of the brightly-colored pile of blankets and camping gear stacked a few feet away.

He does a double take, “Is that a hammock?

Scott, who’s standing with Stiles at the tailgate of Stiles’ Jeep, gives him a rueful look from over his shoulder. He’s already got his arms half full of dry, chopped wood, and he looks away and grunts when Stiles merrily deposits another piece onto the pile. He’s starting to wobble with his armful, but before Stiles can drop _another_ piece of wood into his arms, Derek swoops in and easily takes the entire pile under one arm. Scott sighs in relief.

“It’s the Wolf Moon,” Derek says in answer to his earlier question.

Scott frowns, then shrugs, hastily backing away as if that’s all the answer he needs. Or else he’s running away from Stiles, who is still rummaging in the back of the Jeep.

“It’s sort of like a werewolf New Year,” Cora adds at Scott as she nudges her hip against Stiles to get him out of the way. She grabs the heavy looking duffle bag that Stiles had been in the process of pulling out of the jeep, and then pointedly shuts the tailgate in his face.

Stiles pouts at her. Then he pouts at Derek when Cora rolls her eyes at him, and stalks into the tree line with the duffel bag over her shoulder.

“We used to come out here every year,” Derek explains. “It’ supposed to be a time of pack bonding. I….haven’t done it since the fire.”

“Neither have I,” Cora chirps back at them. Her tone is light, but there’s an edge to it too. It makes Derek sad, but it also reinforces the fact that they both need this tonight.

The trudge through the woods takes about 15 minutes. It shouldn’t take that long, but Stiles had refused to leave any of his stuff behind, and his and Scott’s bulging armloads slow them down quite a bit.

Derek thinks about offering to help, beyond his pile of firewood, but it’s ultimately much more amusing to watch the two tripping and cursing their way through the woods. He has to give Stiles credit for his creative word choices.

He does finally reach over and relieve Stiles of one of the heavier blankets he’s loaded down with, when Stiles manages to trip for the dozenth time or so. The blanket has begun to unfold and become unwieldy, tangling around his arms and legs like some sort of deformed purple octopus. The look Stiles gives him when he reaches for it is both thankful and amused, like he knows why Derek had initially hesitated to offer. He doesn’t call Derek out on it though, just says, “Thanks.”

If their hands brush when Derek manages to liberate it from the tangle of other supplies in Stiles’ arms, neither of them says anything about it.

When they finally reach the clearing Cora is already there. She’s gathered a small pile of sticks and kindling, and neatly arranged everything inside of a fire pit that Derek remembers being there when he was a kid. She’s reclining with her back against a heavy log that Derek does _not_ remember, but the deep ruts in the ground suggest that she’s dragged it into position herself. The duffel bag has been tossed to the side, and remains zipped.

“What took you guys so long?” she asks, rolling her head lazily to look back at them.

“Hey! We were actually _carrying_ stuff,” Stiles reminds her, dumping his armload just as Scott does the same. “When it’s freezing cold, you see if I share any of my hot chocolate.”

Cora huffs and shakes her head. The smirk on her lips is strikingly similar to the look Laura used to get when she was certain of her superiority over everything and everyone. It makes his heart ache a little, but he also finds himself smiling despite himself.

“Come on,” he tells her, walking over and offering her his hand, before pulling her to her feet. “Lets help the humans get comfortable.”

When the sun begins to set less than half-an-hour later, everyone is comfortably settled. Scott and Stiles are sitting on the ground, reclining against the log that Cora had been sitting against earlier. They’re huddled together, side-by-side in their heavy coats, the blanket that Derek had taken from Stiles covering their outstretched legs. A fire crackles merrily in the fire pit, and Cora is kneeling on the opposite side from them, carefully rotating a marshmallow over the flames.

It’s the first time in a long time that just the sight of fire doesn’t set Derek’s teeth on edge. It’s actually strangely soothing, and the flickering orange glow somehow softens everything within the clearing, blurring edges that only become more indistinct as a low fog slowly begins rolling in.

The sky is actually clear though, and the stars are bright pinpricks of light in the sky, a sharp contrast to the dreamlike softness that has settled around them. The moon hasn’t quite risen yet, but Derek can feel it in his bones. It tugs at him, makes his skin tingle with awareness of the night and the little pack he’s surrounded himself with.

Cora feels familiar, like family. She’s a bittersweet reminder of the past, of what he’s lost, while Scott’s presence is a little more complicated to define for him. He makes Derek think about forgiveness and rebirth and transition. He makes Derek _think_ , and it’s equally painful and cathartic to him. But it feels right for Scott to be here.

Stiles…Stiles is…He just _is_.

His presence is vibrant, and Derek’s awareness of him cuts through everything else. He feels as representative of future and safety, as Cora is of past and loss.

“So do we uh…actually have to do anything?” Stiles asks, breaking up Derek’s thoughts.

Derek shakes his head. “Just being here is good. Cora and I will shift soon, but we won’t go far. It’ll help to have something to come back to.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, and then shrugs, before snuggling closer to Scott, who jerks his mug of hot chocolate safely out of the way. “Dude!”

“Oh, get over it,” Stiles grumbles back. He stretches his socked feet past the edge of the blanket, and into range of the crackling fire, wiggling his toes as if that’ll somehow coax the warmth to him faster.

Derek is riveted for a second, and he’s thrown back to a couple of months ago, to the night when Stiles had casually slipped his feet into his lap….

“Penny for your thoughts, big brother,” Cora says, coming up to him and bumping their shoulders together, drawing his focus to her.

That had also been the night she’d shown up.

They’ve been carefully forging a tentative relationship since then, relearning each other. She hadn’t felt comfortable enough to stay with him-- not that he really had the room-- or the Stilinskis, although she hadn’t turned down the sheriff’s offer to help her to find a small apartment in town, or Derek’s offer to help pay for it. The insurance money he’s been living on was as much hers as his, anyway.

“Just thinking about…” he trails off.

Huffing a laugh, she pointedly tilts her head towards Stiles, who is gesturing enthusiastically as he explains something or other to a rapt Scott.

Derek turns his head and glares at her, but she just bumps against his side again.

“Pack.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, clearly not buying it. “Three makes a pack,” she muses, and then adds softly, “He’s good for you, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t respond. Can’t. Her hand is warm when it slips over his shoulder though, and they both just stand there for a long moment, their faces turned up toward the sky, waiting.

When the moon finally crests the tree line Cora pulls away and starts stripping, her movements quick and economical. Her breath clouds the fog air, and steam curls off her skin as each article of clothing is removed.

Derek quickly follows suite.

He knows the exact moment when Stiles notices them. He feels his heartbeat speed up only seconds before he hears a soft little gasp. He can’t help but wonder whether it’s Cora or him who’s gotten Stiles pulse racing like that.

He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it. As soon as the last of his clothes fall to the ground, he lets the transformation roll over him. He drops down to all fours and he doesn’t even try to stop the howl that rumbles up from some deep place in his chest.

Cora’s howl from beside him choruses into the night in perfect harmony.

As their howls taper off, a last mournful note lingering on the air for a moment, the fog that had been only a low misty layer on the ground, roils up like a wave. It crashes over them, breaking up into distinctly individual shapes.

The shapes take a moment to form, but suddenly Derek finds himself standing forefront of a wavering pack of ghost wolves. A dozen maybe, their pale forms flickering and indistinct, but somehow wild and infinitely familiar.

Derek knows that Cora sees them too, by the way she prances nervously to the side, although she doesn’t shy away from them. He doesn’t think Scott and Stiles do, but it doesn’t matter because _he_ can see them, pale and wavering as they prance across the ground, ready to run.

So he does. He turns, Cora on his heels and bounds into the forest, leaping easily over a fallen tree. Everything is instinct and mindless. He feels free, like he could keep running forever, like this is his purpose in life, running through the forest with the blood of his pack singing through his veins like fire.

Pack…

He stops, suddenly, and maybe they’ve only been running for a moment, or maybe it’s been hours. He doesn’t know, but he finds himself remembering his promise to Stiles, that they wouldn’t go far.

He catches movement to his right, and he picks out the shape of a wolf. She’s larger than the rest, and Derek realizes that he has instinctively been allowing her to take the lead. When he focuses on her, her shape solidifies enough that for just a moment, her coat gleams glossy black under the moon. She looks at him, eyes intense and sad, and gleaming red.

She looks majestic, and she jerks her head, beckoning him forward to continue their run. Ghost shapes dance around her, coming in and out of focus. For a moment another figure solidifies beside her, smaller but full of the same compelling power that feels like _alpha_ , but also _sister_. The wolf’s tongue lolls out and she looks like she’s grinning at him for a moment, before she fades out of focus once again.

Derek _wants_ to follow them. He wants so desperately to keep running until he becomes one of them, until he can shed all that he is, and just exist. Until he can be free.

But it’s just at that moment that a laugh breaks through the forest, bright and distinctive. Derek can't help but turn slightly towards it, like a moth compelled to a flame.

Torn, he turns his head to look back to the ghost shape. He catches his mother’s eyes, and she huffs, nods her head sadly, before throwing her head up into a soundless howl.

When they start running again, Derek is at the lead, and he guides them in a wide arc that brings them inexorably back toward the clearing where he knows Scott and Stiles are still waiting. His mother’s ghost keeps pace at his heels, but she's fading, slowly becoming more and more indistinct, and when Derek and Cora cross the tree line, the ghostly fog breaks and disperses, as if it hitting a brick wall.

For a moment they stand there, panting from their run. Cora changes back immediately, casually snagging her clothes. She doesn’t seem particularly worried about her momentary nakedness in the face of Scott and Stiles, who are both gaping. She also doesn’t look back.

Derek can’t shift back to join her. He’s overcome by the sudden loss of his ghost pack, the loss of his family once again. He turns to stare into the trees again, but the fog is almost completely gone. His mother is barely an outline now, dim and wavering, and it’s only the glowing red of her eyes that allows him to remain focused on her.

She lifts her chin at him and paws at the ground, and the leaves around her feet swirl, as if feeling her ghostly touch. They stare at each other for a moment, and then she jerks her muzzle up, motioning him to turn away from her. 

It’s time for him to rejoin the pack that he does have.

He can’t quite do it though, even long after her image has faded completely, and It’s only the feel of a hand curling into the fur of his shoulder that finally brings him back to himself, anchoring him.

“Come on Derek,” Stiles says softly, and that’s all it takes. The shift pulls out from under his skin, exchanging fur for skin until he’s left kneeling, naked, on the ground, Stiles' hand still warm on his shoulder.

They stay like that for a second as Derek breathes through his grief, but it passes quickly. 

It’s not long before Derek is able to gather himself enough to stand up. Stiles jerks his hand back, and steps away, and Derek takes the opportunity to hurriedly pull his clothes back on. When he’s done, he turns to look at Stiles, and even though it’s dark, the light from the fire is enough that he can pick out the high flush of color on his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Stiles says softly. He licks his lips, and Derek has to fight back a small smirk. Here in the dark, he feels suddenly brave, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s reaching out and cupping Stiles jaw, lifting his face.

Stiles gulps, but steps closer, turns his face into the touch.

“Derek…”

Stiles’ voice is breathy, and the kiss, when it comes, is only the barest brush of dry lips. It’s nice, though, and very easy.

“Derek…” When Stiles says his name this time, the tone is different. He sounds awed.

“Hmm,” he says absently. He shifts forward and nuzzles his face into Stiles’ neck for a second, before Stiles steps away, cups _his_ face instead.

“Derek, your eyes glowed red.”

“I’m the alpha now,” he admits against Stiles’ mouth. The words feel right, but also meaningless, because in the end, with his pack surrounding him, nothing has really changed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story was actually conceived, and about 3/4 of the way written, before 3a aired and we found out about the existence of a "True Alpha". In my mind, Derek becoming an alpha in this story does not conflict with that, nor do I see him as True Alpha. His ascension has more to do with hereditary and pack bonds, than Derek being particularly extraordinary himself (not that he's not pretty damn special in his own ways).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart: Timshel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117168) by [mushroomtale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale)




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